by Nick Oldham
On the way round the pool she had to walk past two of Bussola’s new bodyguards. One was on duty, sat up at a table, reading in the shade of a tree. The other was off-duty, laid out on a recliner in his boxing shorts, browning himself in the rays. Guns and holsters were very much in evidence. They both watched Felicity from behind the dark lenses of their Ray-Bans.
Even though she was injured and probably incapable of anything more than very passive sex, Felicity could not help noticing the bulge in the guard’s boxers. It looked a dangerous packet. She longed to reach out for it.
Her husband was gesturing impatiently with his fingers. She handed the mobile over.
‘ Why don’ you just fuck off inside? I’m sicka lookin’ at cha hobblin’ around like a witch all day long,’ Bussola suggested.
‘ Okay, babe,’ she murmured. ‘Anything you say.’
She shuffled away.
Bussola stuck the phone to his ear.
‘ Is… is that Mr Bussola?’ Stanway stuttered.
‘ You rang the number, you tell me.’
‘ I’ll assume it is… My name is Maurice Stanway and I’m very sorry to disturb you, I know you are a busy man.’
‘ How did ya get this number?’
‘ I… er, represent Charles Gilbert. I’m a solicitor — lawyer, if you like. He gave me the number and I’m phoning on his behalf.’
‘ In that case stop friggin’ about and get on with it. You’re right — I am busy.’
Felicity crept up the stairs which wound their way up the rear of the house. A first-level landing gave her the chance to rest. The window there looked over the terrace to the pool where she could see her husband on the phone.
Had her eyes been pistols, they would have shot Bussola to pieces. She perched the corner of her bottom on the low window-ledge and opened the window quietly. Just below her were the two bodyguards, unaware she was hovering above them. Bussola was talking gruffly on the phone. The bodyguards were whispering something to each other. Felicity craned her neck and strained to eavesdrop.
‘ She deserved it… no fucker pisses with Mario,’ the on-duty guard was saying.
‘ He made a classic mess of her,’ the other observed. Felicity knew his name was Gus. She did not know the other’s name.
‘ Yeah — she used to be a good-lookin’ piece a tail. Now her face is so outta line she couldn’t even blow a candle out.’
Felicity choked back a sob at the words. They were true. She was horrible to look at now. Face swollen, body bruised to hell and back — was she ever going to recover? Her husband had made a mess of her and she hated him for it.
‘ Shit!’ Bussola roared. He threw the phone down in a fit of temper and it smashed to pieces on the terracotta floor.
The bodyguards shot to attention, nerves showing.
‘ Ira!’ the Italian bellowed. ‘Get your stinking Jewish ass out here now.’
Bussola rolled up to his feet and waddled over to the bodyguards quicker than they anticipated. They jumped to their feet.
Felicity dodged behind the cover of the drape.
‘ Siddown, you assholes,’ Bussola instructed them. ‘Ira? You heard me, or what?’
‘ I’m here, I’m here, keep your big Italian mouth in check.’ Ira Begin, Bussola’s lawyer and adviser in all matters of law, strategy, finance and tactical operations, scuttled like a beetle out of the house, where he had been busy on paperwork. He was the only person who could get away with talking back to Bussola, but even he judged it carefully. Sometimes Bussola needed to be treated with kid gloves and Begin generally knew when. He had been with Bussola many years and though he was a small, insignificant-looking man, he wielded great power and influence in Bussola’s empire. He was ruthless when necessary, having cold-bloodedly murdered four people in his time and assisted Bussola to murder or dispose of eight others, including the Armstrong brothers; mostly, though, Begin liked to keep timidly in the background, using his various skills to assist in the acquisition of money and power for his boss. He slid his John Lennon style spectacles on and blinked in the sunlight. ‘What’s up?’
‘ Got an issue.’ Bussola perched himself on the edge of the table the bodyguard had been sitting at. He always used the word ‘issue’ rather than ‘problem’.
‘ Shoot.’
‘ Gilbert’s been arrested in England.’
‘ How is that an issue?’
‘ Let me finish, you twerp. In two ways. Firstly, the equipment we are shipping over to him — you know, the video games — need to be dealt with by him. He’s going to hand over the little extras we have secreted in them to our other contact in Manchester.’ Bussola was referring to the two kilos of cocaine that were going to accompany the arcade games; Gilbert was due to deliver them to a drug dealer who was handling Bussola’s North of England operation. If Gilbert was not there to receive the games, there could be major complications, not only of a financial nature. ‘And secondly, the English cops are coming across here to pick up a witness against him and take that witness back to testify. It’s about a murder five godamned years ago! I mean, who the hell gives a shit about something that old? Anyway, it’s that stupid little girl who spoiled some of our fun.’
‘ Tracey Greenwood — the English girl.’ Begin knew immediately; it was his job to know.
‘ Yeah — that junkie piece a shit. She could damage me — possibly,’ Bussola complained. ‘And not only that, Gilbert is a friend. I look after friends.’
‘ I take it you would rather she did not testify?’ Begin said fussily.
‘ It would simplify things all round. Make some enquiries, find out where she is and then just fucking waste her.’
In the window Felicity drew back again when Begin turned and walked back into the house.
She had heard everything that had been said.
Maurice Stanway replaced the phone. His hand shook. His palms were sweating. For the second time in a matter of days he had arranged the murder of an innocent individual.
He stood up, drained emotionally and physically, walked out of his office and found his way to the cloakroom, where he filled a wash-basin and ducked his face into the cold water until his lungs almost burst. He pulled up, spluttering, looking scornfully at his image in the mirror.
‘ You bastard,’ he breathed. ‘You absolute bastard.’
Chapter Twenty-two
Henry leaned across, flicked the handle and pushed the door open for Danny who walked down her short drive and dropped into the passenger seat. She was dead-beat and looked it. Her bleary eyes could hardly stay open even though she had slept well that night.
But five in the morning is no time for anyone to get up. It reminded her of days gone by when she worked shifts. On reflection she was amazed she handled them so well.
It was now 5.45 a.m., Wednesday morning, and Henry, as promised, was bang on time to pick her up. He estimated a good hour to get to Manchester Airport because even at that time of day, traffic around the city’s motorways could be horrendous.
He was wide awake and pretty buzzy. ‘Morning!’
‘ Urumph,’ Danny responded, smacking the recliner button and jerking backwards into a nearly prone position. She tossed a holdall into the back seat, then settled as comfortably as possible after turning up the heating a few notches. She was a very warm-blooded animal and needed heat, especially at this time of day, and particularly in her extremities, which were like blocks of ice.
Henry, perceptive as ever, picked up the body language: DO NOT DISTURB. He drove in silence and within minutes they were on the motorway. The radio was tuned into Jazz FM, so Danny closed her eyes, mentally rolled to the beat… and fell asleep.
‘ Here we are.’
‘ What?’ Danny shook her head and rubbed her eyes, unable to believe they had arrived at the airport already. ‘Is this a Tardis, or what?’
‘ No, just sounds like one.’
Henry handed her a package which contained a visa for Danny and an emergency pass
port for Tracey Greenwood. Both had been sent by courier, arriving at midnight at Henry’s house. He also handed her a wad of dollar traveller cheques. She stuffed the whole lot into her holdall.
‘ Got your own passport?’
She shot him a withering glance.
They walked to International Departures where Danny checked in without having to wait. She was told to go directly to passport control.
‘ Okay, Danny, try to get some sleep on the flight because you’ll need it if you’re going to do a quick turnaround. Grab the girl and get her back here for tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.’
She took hold of Henry’s lapels and dragged his face down to her. They kissed briefly.
‘ Look after yourself. See you tomorrow.’
Danny gave a quick wave and trotted away towards passport control. She didn’t glance back.
Thirty minutes later she was settled in the most luxurious airplane seat she had ever been in and was back asleep before the plane left the ground.
Following her rash decision to employ Steve Kruger to tail her husband, Felicity Bussola had learned some hard lessons.
The first was that no one messes with Mario Bussola without getting hurt… and that included his wife.
Bussola had beaten upon her remorselessly, enjoying every minute of it. He had smashed her face in, initially with his big fat fists and by pounding her on the edge of the grand piano, breaking her cheekbones. The instrument had subsequently to be cleaned to remove all the blood and snot and two teeth Felicity had dribbled into its workings.
Bussola had not been content with the face. Next he pummelled her body, but not with his hands or feet. He carefully selected a lamp-stand, and wielding it like a baseball bat, whacked her repeatedly with it, following her round the house as she cowered in terror behind any cover she could find. After this he dragged her back to the piano, forced her fingers onto the ivories and slammed the lid down at least a dozen times. But he only actually broke two of her fingers on her left hand.
Then, loving husband that he was, he arranged private medical treatment for her at a clinic he owned.
Very much linked to the first lesson was that it was in her interests not to take any more interest in her husband’s whereabouts. He ran businesses which operated twenty-four hours a day and he had to be in a position to supervise them appropriately. So of course he would be away nights. It didn’t mean he was being unfaithful to her.
Yeah, right.
The final lesson was that she should be grateful to be married to him. She should be grateful he came home at all and even more grateful if he deigned to fuck her. She learned this lesson, because he told her.
Those, at least, were the direct learning points from hiring Steve Kruger.
She learned a few indirect ones too. One was to never — ever — trust the staff. Whatever they said, she would never again take anyone of them into her confidence, like she had done with the two bastards who had kidnapped Steve Kruger for her. In the end, Mario employed them, and their first loyalty was to him, not her.
She had also become aware that the house was riddled with listening devices and miniature cameras, monitored from a control room at the gate-house, into which she had never been allowed. She had been under the impression the gate-house was simply a place where Bussola’s heavyweights just crashed out. Now she knew it was far more sinister.
Her personal objective now was to find all the surveillance devices and then never to say or do anything further to incriminate herself or any other person in any way. It might get someone killed.
She believed she had located all the bugs. The only rooms which appeared to be free of them were the bedrooms, Mario and Ira Begin’s offices and most corridors and landings. She had no idea why the bugs existed and did not dare ask.
The main lesson she had learned from recent events, though, was that she was a stupid, naive bitch who had been blinded by money and lifestyle and was now more unhappy than she had ever been in the whole of her life. She felt trapped, with no way out… and she still didn’t know if Bussola was cheating on her.
Not that it seemed to matter any more.
‘ It took a little time,’ Ira Begin said apologetically, ‘but he came through in the end.’
Bussola looked up from his desk at Begin who was leaning against the door jamb of his boss’s study. It was 9 a.m., on the day after Begin had been given instructions to start making enquiries into the current state of play and whereabouts of Tracey Greenwood.
‘ Sit down,’ Bussola nodded. Begin came into the office and took a seat on the couch, pushing the door to behind him, though it did not close properly.
‘ I had to pull in some goodwill on this one, Mario. It’ll cost.’
‘ Pay.’
Begin nodded. ‘Apparently Tracey Greenwood presented herself to Myrna Rosza at Kruger Investigations and stated she wanted to testify against Gilbert in some old murder case in England.’
‘ Why Kruger Investigations?’
Begin shrugged. ‘Maybe she doesn’t trust the authorities. Anyway, she’s now with that black bitch Rosza, who’s babysitting her until the English cops get here. There’s a detective due to land at MIA later today to escort the girl back to Britain — a guy called Danny Furness.’
‘ Where’s the girl now, as we speak?’
Begin heaved a sigh. ‘With Rosza, place unknown.’
Bussola gave his assistant a withering look. ‘Make it a place known.’
‘ Working on it as we speak.’
Bussola ran a hand through his hair. ‘I want her dead, Ira. If you can negotiate a hand-over with Rosza, then all well and good.’
‘ I have an idea, a leverage tool we might use.’
Bussola waved a hand dismissively. ‘I believe in empowerment, Ira. Do it your way, but if it doesn’t work, kill the girl and then kill anyone else who causes any obstruction, cops included.’
At the study door there was the faintest whisper of a sigh, a movement… Begin leapt to his feet and jumped to the door.
No one there.
He gave a short laugh and closed it.
Felicity had been watching and waiting for Begin to go in and see her husband, and had then sneaked up to the door and listened to every word spoken between the two men. She had remained still, completely rigid, during the conversation, her ear literally at the crack in the door. Then her ribs twisted slightly and she could not prevent the squeak of pain escaping from her lips.
She spun out of sight in the dog-leg of the hallway just a moment before Begin poked his head out of the door, amazing herself how quickly she could move when she needed to, despite the present condition of her body.
Now she needed to get to a phone which wasn’t wired up. Something easier said than done.
Felicity’s activities had been very much curtailed since her recent blunder, and getting out of the house alone was now a major operation. Bussola was deeply suspicious of her, wanted to know where she was going, what she was doing, who she was seeing; he also made sure she was accompanied all the time.
Had she not been almost crippled by his beating, slipping away from a chaperone would have been relatively easy. Now she had to think up some other strategy, and double-quick too, for if she could not get away from the house, she’d be unable to warn Myrna of Bussola’s plans for the witness and possibly Myrna herself.
Ten minutes after his conversation with Begin, Bussola was again working by the poolside, his laptop connected up to the Internet where he was surfing the pornography pages. Felicity hovered with a complete lack of assertiveness, just in his view.
‘ Yeah?’ he said at length, not raising his head from the screen.
‘ Sweetheart, I need to get out,’ she said humbly.
Bussola stopped tapping at the keys. He regarded her sternly and she prepared herself for the ‘why’ question.
It came. ‘Why?’
‘ I just wanna drift around a few clothes shops, cheer myself up a little, maybe try o
n a few things. I won’t buy anything.’ Not that she could. As part of her punishment, Bussola had chopped off all her credit. ‘Honey, please can I?’ she pined.
He then shocked her. ‘Yeah, you can. In fact, go and buy yourself something.’ He delved into his briefcase and extracted a wad of cash. He did not count it, just handed it over.
‘ Gee… thanks honey,’ she said genuinely, seduced by the sight of greenbacks. There must have been about fifteen hundred dollars.
‘ Pleasure, babe.’
Then she remembered who he was, what he had done to her and others, but nevertheless maintained her gratefulness. ‘You are really good to me.’
‘ Hey!’ he clicked his forefinger at her. ‘And don’t you forget it. Now get lost.’
His attention returned to the computer. Felicity limped painfully away, hearing Bussola’s voice call behind her. ‘Gus, you take my wife shopping, y’hear?’
Gus stood up. ‘Okay, boss.’ Felicity saw it was the bodyguard with the rather substantial appendages. It was horrendous to be horny and unable to do anything about it.
Ira Begin had not reached his exalted position in life without proper planning, taking into account all the imponderables of a situation, always making back-up plans for any contingency and ensuring they were in place should his initial course of action not succeed.
As was the case with the situation concerning Tracey Greenwood and Myrna Rosza.
He had quickly established how he was going to approach the problem. It would, as Bussola had suggested, be through a process of negotiation. If that failed, other tactics would drop into place. But what he needed to know before anything happened at all was the exact holding position of the girl.
Once he had that, he would swing into action. ‘Captain Crenshaw, Homicide, please,’ Begin said into the phone.